


Icarus

by midnightsnapdragon



Series: Nostalgia [5]
Category: Lunar Chronicles - Marissa Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Ancient Greece, F/M, Mythology - Freeform, Mythology theme, Past Lives, Reincarnation, The Lunar Chronicles Ship Weeks, tlc ship weeks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:45:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9542267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightsnapdragon/pseuds/midnightsnapdragon
Summary: She dreams of flying, and sunlight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 Mini-Ship Weeks theme "Mythology".

**i.**

She dreams of flying, and sunlight.

It’s funny. Winter can never seem to get warm even in the cocoon of luxurious comforters in her bedroom, even with the soft mattress provided for the princess. It’s too cold in this crystal castle.

But in dreams, she’s warm. Warm and safe and happy, with great feathered wings sealed with wax. She soars effortlessly into the sky, dives and spins and turns pinwheels, in the sky so blue it should be thick as water. Maybe the sky is an ocean, too, Winter wonders sometimes; it’s bottomless and free and deadly.

You could suffocate among the stars just as easily as in water.

Some nights she doesn’t want to sleep. She wants to stay awake in case the wolves come. Not gentle wolves, like Ryu, but the slavering monsters deep below the moon’s rocky surface. They’re always down there, waiting for the command to murder. Somewhere in the back of her mind, where common sense lives, Winter knows they can’t come into the palace. They can’t hurt her. She’s safe here, on Luna, removed from the bloodshed on Earth. (That beautiful blue planet, stained red.)

Common sense has stopped meaning anything. She stays up till morning, keeping herself awake, not venturing past her chambers should a wolf-monster be waiting there to devour her.

For comfort, especially in the long night, she curls up on the bed and thinks of Jacin. 

When is he coming back?

He is the warmth of friendship; he is the glow of love. Even if he doesn’t know it. Winter longs to look into his face and see the sun rise in his smile.

It’s so dark here, and the walls are bleeding.

**ii.**

Sometimes Winter thinks she remembers Earth. Not recalling something she already knows, but … remembering.

The soothing white noise of the sea; breathing, whispering. 

Crinkling parchment. The sharp smell of olives that taste like champagne. The ticking machines in an old tower, where she lived with an old man – 

No, surely that wasn’t her. What tower? And she’s never tasted olives.

It must have been a dream.

**iii.**

A cold and shady room. The walls are stone; when she looks out the window and beholds the dizzying distance to the ground, she staggers back. She wears a white garment around her shoulders and lightweight sandals on her feet.

And wings, always the wings. White feathers sealed with wax. Each of them is twice her height; the old man straps them to her arms and tells her to be careful. Don’t fly too close to the sun. Don’t touch the sea. Don’t lose your head.

But she doesn’t listen. With wings, how could she feel anything but wild, boundless joy? She’ll feel the sun again soon. She and the old man, _Father,_ will escape this prison and fly over the vast blue sea. Like birds, like angels. A better place is waiting for them, somewhere. All that’s left to do is find it.

So she runs to the window, folds her wings to her sides, and jumps through.

**iv.**

Winter runs her fingers along the spines of withered books. The royal library is an oasis in the cold palace of Artemisia, a miracle. She wants to bury herself in old pages and stories until she can’t remember who she is anymore.

But something is happening to her. The taste of old names, ancient names, is on her tongue; strange songs she can’t understand echo in her mind. What is she remembering?

These memories feel old. Older than Winter herself, older than the palace, older than anything she’s ever known. 

Winter pauses on a book with an omega emblem. With one finger, she tips it from the shelf.

“Ελλάδα,” she whispers. _Eh-la-va._ Smooth as butter with a razor edge.

The book is titled _Myths of Ancient Greece._

**v.**

The air rushes past her as she tumbles, head over heels, to the rocks below. Somewhere above, she hears a shout as the old man runs to the window, but it’s torn away by the wind.

With a guttural scream, Winter spreads her arms and _heaves._

Her fall slows, just a bit. But then she’s falling again.

She flaps her wings again and again, half sobbing, knowing she is so close. So close to freedom. She can’t die now. Can freedom kill someone if they take it all at once?

_Let me fly. Let me fly. Let me fly._

**vi.**

Jacin is back.

He has barely stepped through the doors to the guards’ quarters when she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around his torso. He hesitates only a moment before hugging her back, pressing his face into her hair. Winter is in tears.

Neither of them say the words. That’s okay. Winter has stopped waiting for Jacin to say he loves her, instead wondering how she might say them herself. It’s more complicated than she thought.

Pulling back, she looks into his face. Emotion is shining through Jacin’s eyes, more than he usually allows.

“I missed you,” he says, voice so low she might have imagined it.

Winter looks into his face and wonders.

He’s handsome, yes, so much so that her cheeks warm, but when she looks at him she feels more than that. A thousand childhood memories; his embrace is the reassuring warmth of day, the rising sun in his smile. It’s so bright, such a hopeful and glorious thing; she hasn’t seen him truly smile for a very long time, but the memory has stayed with her.

_Memory … the sun._

And then she feels something else. A dropping sensation in her stomach, like it’s gone altogether; the deafening howl of wind, whipping her hair. And sunlight. Rays of the sun reaching out to her, trying to save her, warning her to stay away, _stay_ – 

“Winter?”

She blinks, and the feeling is gone. There’s only the crystal-clear blue in his eyes. Another ocean, another sort of freedom. She wants to lie in that pool of water, if only she can avoid the black hole in the centre.

“Winter, are you all right?”

**vii.**

Over the next few days, she lives half-dreaming. The hallucinations are worse than before, though Winter isn’t sure they are merely visions any more. They’re more tangible than that, more tangible than the blood on the hem of her gown, more real than the growls of wolves reverberating through the palace walls.

_“Ίκαρος. I know how we shall escape.”_

_“How, Father?”_

_“I will make wings for us. We will fly away from Crete.”_

It scares her.

The worst of it is when she reads the myths. Ancient Greece, one of the greatest first-era civilizations in history, seems full of nightmares … golden apples … great feats and heroes … and gods. Artemis, the silver lady, goddess of the moon. Heracles, the demigod of twelve impossible labours. 

The stories resonate within Winter as if calling through her blood. She knows this nation. She knows these stories.

_“You must be careful with them.”_

There’s one story in particular. A tragedy. A brilliant architect and his son, imprisoned on an island called Crete.

_“The feathers are held together with wax. And you know what happens when fire meets wax?”_

_“It melts.”_

The architect made wings for them. Great feathered wings, sealed with wax, each of them twice the height of the boy. They were supposed to escape and live happily ever after, as a family. Him and the boy called – 

_“Listen to me, Ίκαρος . Flying is exhilarating, but you must not lose your head. Do not fly too close to the sun, or the wax will melt and the wings will fall apart.”_

_"Yes, Father. I understand.”_

Icarus.

**viii.**

Father was right. Flying _is_ exhilarating.

Winter swoops through the air, defying gravity, defying death, defying the world. Laughing, she tucks her wings into her sides and plunges, spinning, before launching out her arms and soaring back into the sky.

Behind her, Father calls, “Be careful! Don’t play around!”

“I’ll be fine,” she whoops. Her mind is fuzzy; it’s like she’s feeling all the happiness in the world at once, and the joy is overwhelming. Winter opens her wings, catching the wind, and flies higher.

Behind her is Crete, her prison, where King Minos had imprisoned them both. Underneath her is the sea, dark blue and shimmering under the sun, so far below now that falling would mean death. Before her is brightness – a future, a new life. Winter inhales the sea salt and lets it fill her up.

She knows she’s not thinking straight – drunk on sunshine, drunk on freedom, drunk on this impossible flight – and she doesn’t care.

Winter turns up her wings and goes higher, and higher, and higher. She can’t get enough. The sun will erase all traces of that cold, dank tower room, and she wants to forget that place more than anything.

Dimly, she realizes that it’s very warm, this high in the sky ...

“ICARUS!” Her father’s voice is panicked, as if he had been calling out to her for some time now. She hadn’t heard a thing, but now his scream breaks through the haze of happiness. “Your wings will melt!”

Jolting into action, Winter turns her wings down, trying to get lower, but something is wrong. Her arms feel too heavy; the wings won’t respond. Just like that, her joy is gone, replaced with terror as she flaps the wings; with every movement, white feathers drift away, and then she is falling.

There is nothing left of the wings but the useless leather straps on her arms.

She is not a bird, not an angel.

Winter catches a glimpse of her father’s face, anguished and horrified, as she tumbles past him, gathering speed. He pulls in his wings, diving toward her, trying to catch her before the fall claims her life, but that bright future is already gone.

The sun seems to darken as she falls like a stone to the merciless sea.

**ix.**

Winter gasped awake. She thrashed, windmilling her arms like that would give her back her wings, give her back her sun, but she was in her plush bedchamber, safe safe safe.

Breathing hard, she sat up. For once the voices in her head were silent.

_“Ίκαρος,”_ she whispered, testing out the name on her own tongue. It felt natural, like she’d been speaking it all her life, like she’d simply forgotten it for a while and was only now remembering.

Icarus. The boy who had flown too close to the sun and paid the price.

Why did it feel like it was her? Her, flying to the sun; her, falling to the sea. Winter remembered it – _she remembered it._

She remembered olives and sweat dripping down her neck in the climate, white sand and the taste of sea salt in her parched throat. She remembered Daedalus, the architect, who had designed a Labyrinth for King Minos. She remembered the brush of feathers on her arms as she launched herself out of that dank tower prison and into the light of day.

The calm of the dark room felt strange. Winter tried to soothe her ragged pulse, yet the dream was still fresh in her mind. And another feeling – more subtle, more ominous – crept in behind the panic of the fall.

Something was wrong.

No sooner did she have this thought than someone knocked on the door. Winter jumped back, scrambling away on the bed; the door opened and she gave a little shriek – _they’ve come for her_ – 

“Shhh,” Jacin gasped, closing the door behind him and pressing his back against it. His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he’d run to her rooms. His eyes were wild upon hers, agitated.

“Jacin,” Winter sighed, relieved, a smile is already on her lips. “What are you –“

“I have to tell you something.”

She caught her breath, hope flooding her chest. Perhaps he truly cared for her the way she did for him, and he had come to tell her. Perhaps the words were what drove him to her chambers tonight.

Then Jacin’s eyes appeared to ice over, and the hope shrivelled. Gooseflesh covered her arms and Winter shrank back, bracing herself; something bad was coming, and she felt she knew what it was. _Please don’t say it, don’t do this, don’t_ –

“Levana has ordered me to kill you.”

**x.**

The words rang hollow. Winter blinked. It was in a mist that she murmured, “To kill me …?”

Jacin tore himself away from the door and plunged into her closet, coming out with a black cloak before Winter could even comprehend what he’d said.

_Jacin must kill me._

“Take this.” Jacin thrust the cloak bundle at her, but she made no move to take it. Growling, he shook it out and draped it over her shoulders, fastening it around her throat. He gripped her shoulders, telling her how she should run from the palace, where she could go, but his voice seemed to come through deep water. She heard nothing.

Slowly, slowly, it was sinking in: her stepmother had finally run out of patience. Levana truly wanted Winter dead, and she had demanded that Jacin Clay be the one to do it.

Not like Winter hadn’t seen this coming. For years she’d seen death in the how the queen looked at her; she’d known Levana hated her, and that the queen was ruthless enough to follow through on her hatred. This threat had been hanging over Winter’s head since the day she was born.

She just hadn’t expected it to ever happen.

“Winter, are you listening to me?”

“Why you?” she whispered, staring without seeing at his face. She was looking beyond him, beyond Luna, beyond the third era, to a tower on an island in a shining blue sea. “Why now?”

Jacin’s hands fell from her shoulders. His voice was toneless as he said, “To prove my loyalty.”

Winter’s eyes filled with tears. Her sun, her warm and loving sun, was as good as gone.

Now she knew why the myth of Icarus resounded so strongly in her mind. She had flown too close to the sun. She had allowed herself to love Jacin. And now they were both paying the price. For she knew, somehow, that Levana’s primary concern was not Jacin’s loyalty to the Crown; it was his loyalty to _Winter._

If he did not care for her, he could kill her and thereby save himself both an accusation of treason and a lifetime of heartbreak. But he did care, and by sparing Winter’s life he condemned himself.

Winter closed her eyes and laughed bitterly, shaking her head. They were doomed either way.

When she opened them, she found Jacin watching her. As if he were drinking in the sight of her. As if he was feeling the same despair that she was.

Winter stepped forward, and for once he didn’t move away as she cupped his face. Her thumbs traced his cheekbones, touched his mouth. She really was crying now.

 _“Winter,”_ he whispered voice breaking.

She smiled a sad, sweet smile. _“σ 'αγαπώ,”_ she choked out, and she hardly cared where the words came from. She had said them, and she knew what they meant, and that was all that mattered.

_I love you._

Winter reached up and kissed him softly.

Jacin stiffened, and she pulled back, heart already breaking. But he looked into her eyes just long enough for her to see the amazement and hopelessness there before, with a quiet gasp, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back.

It could have been a heartbeat or a thousand years, for Winter felt a lifetime’s worth of love and longing in that kiss. He was her sun, her rising sun, and she had broken out of her prison to see it one last time before she fell.

Was loving, flying too close, worth it when it only brought you anguish?

Winter broke away first, her hands slipping from around his neck to rest against his chest. Jacin didn’t let go, only stared down at her with eyes of melting ice. For the first time in a very long time, Winter could see every thought etched upon his face.

“There’s a book,” she said quietly, slipping from his grasp. Jacin’s hands fell to his sides.

The cloak hood went over her head, a pouch of money into her pocket. “It’s hidden under my mattress.”

Every movement that brought her farther away from him was a stab in the heart.

“I want you to read it.”

But it was time to go.

She sucked in a breath. “And then I want you to burn it.”

\---

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